Bleedthrough
by Kerfect
Summary: Time does not exist and Sawyer's life begins to bleedthrough into itself.


"**The line begins to blur." -nin**

Warm. So warm. His thoughts seep out like old blood from a deep tear. Memories. Bleeding out. A small boy hiding under a big bed. It's dusty and dark. And there's something wet around his fingers. There's a smell. Like rusty metal. Salty. Jim hates salt.

"Elizabeth!" There's a roar downstairs and flesh hitting flesh.

Mom…But there's only darkness. Empty and lonely.

Mommy! No. Don't do it.

Don't go…

…come back for me.

_"Yes! Like that… harder… there… don't stop!" Jim sees him from the door. He's peeking out. He's scared._

"God! Sawyer!" He's got dirty blond hair and a rakish smile. And she's under him. And he wants to throw up.

When the police came, he was still hiding.

Hands. All over. Guiding him. A woman in a slightly rumpled suit with reddish short hair.

"My name is Miriam. What's yours?"

Softly. So softly. "Jim." 

Hands over his eyes. Guiding him through the living room. _Don't look, Jimmy, don't look. _

He looks. Peeking through the warm hands on his face. Miriam's hands. She's got a gold band on one of her fingers. It's warm too.

She's lying on the floor like a doll with the stuffing ripped out. Her eyes are empty and her mouth is open a little.

_Mommy. _

His tears are bitter and it's hard to understand that he'll never see her again. And what does never mean anyway? Somehow he can't bring himself to feel bad about Father.

The teacher is droning on about the Civil War and whether slavery is really an issue. He doesn't hear him. He's Jamie now. He's looking out the window. A figure walking down the sidewalk. A man with blond hair. Jamie catches his breath. It's him.

Sawyer hasn't been here in years. He hates this place. It's nothing but a cradle of decaying memories, scarred and rotten beyond the point of recognition. He feels a hot gaze on his neck and he looks up. A kid. Just a kid. Blue meeting blue and Sawyer feels sick all over again.

When he's in the bar in the evening, he picks up a woman. She's pretty and blond.

"I'm Lizzy," she says.

"Sawyer." He's grinning. He sees her wedding band. She's an easy mark. Desperate and trapped. He can see the fading and barely visible bruises. The stiff way she's holding her side. Nothing anyone would notice, but if you know where to look, it's easy to see.

He buys her a drink and she's happy. He can see her eyes dancing. A Southern Comfort. His mother's favorite drink. He laughs at her joke.

He takes her to his hotel room the first night and she takes him home the next. He can feel a hot blue gaze on his back when he's fucking her. But he's imagining it. She never said anything about a kid.

Jimmy's really good at hiding. He hides when Father's home. He hides when his parents are fighting. He's hiding when he's scared. _It's going to be okay, she says as she closes the closet door._

Mommy… come back….

Jamie wakes up in cold sweat again. It's the same nightmare. One he had over and over. He goes downstairs to get some water. He has to be quiet or his foster parents are going to be angry. Jamie's good at being quiet.

The bar is loud and bright. But he's watching it through the windows. The acrid smell of cigarette smoke makes his eyes water and he lights a cigarette of his own. It's drizzling and he's wearing a loose light shirt. He's cold. He's always cold. He rubs his hands, huddling to the wall, clients don't like it when he's half frozen and stiff.

"How old are you, son?" There's a man in front of him. He's dressed in an expensive suit, his longish hair is pulled back in a ponytail. His frigid blue eyes look him over and he's afraid again. But then he remembers that he hasn't eaten in two days so he pushes himself from the wall and tries to look playful instead of terrified.

"How old do you want me to be?" The man smirks so Jamie guesses he did okay.

The car is large and shiny. It's leather inside and it still smells new. He runs his hand over the slightly oily texture, imagining what it would feel like if it was all his. The man is looking at him curiously; eyes squinted, his mouth lingering in a smile.

"You like it?" His voice is rich and smooth and Jamie shivers.

"It's nice."

"What's your name, boy?" he asks, sliding closer to Jamie, his suit silently slithering across soft leather of the seats.

Jamie looks up a little startled. They don't ask his name. They never have before. Somehow giving out something so private scares him and he flinches.

"It's Sawyer," he fires out, looking at the man with challenging eyes.

The man chuckles, "Like in the book?"

"Yeah." Jamie nods, slicking a hand through his rain soaked hair.

He brings the boy closer to him, sliding his hand along the thin waist. He breathes into his mouth, "Very well then, call me Finn." Jamie doesn't kiss clients, but this guy is like no one else he met before. He's like a firestorm in a tailored suit. Jamie wants to be like him. 

Finn nips at his bottom lip, ghosting his hands along Jamie's back, slipping across the collarbone and undoing the buttons. It's so easy, it's so effortless. Jamie arches under the teasing touches, mewling into the stranger's neck, silently begging for more.

Sawyer's in a bar and the whiskey never tasted so sweet. The job went flawlessly, he can now walk away from this crazy town with a cool half a mil in his pocket. The whiskey burns as it goes down. There's an old man next to him, telling a wild tale with the relish of an seasoned storyteller.

"… so there I was on this island. Completely cut off from all civilization. There were a couple dozen of us. Boar and fish for dinner every day of the week. No running water, no TV. Nothing but a crazy doctor and a wanted murderer for company. Hell, to tell you the truth, it was a ball." 

The bartender stops wiping the bar, looking at the old loon like he actually believes him.

"So how'd you get off?"

The old man sights him, turning his life-weathered face to Sawyer's. "Hey there, sonny. Buy me a drink for a story?" His hair is thinning, but his eyes are sharp and hard.

"I'm almost tapped out," Sawyer lies, raising a glass to his lips.

"Liar," the old man says, his eyes narrowed. It's a tense moment and for a split millisecond Sawyer is scared. Suddenly he grins and waives Sawyer off. "But it's your money, son." He gets up to leave.

There's a vague sense of deja vu like a cloud of cigarette smoke and Sawyer is intrigued. He holds the man and orders a bottle of Jack Daniel's. The man smiles, pouring himself a shot. He rolls the shot glass between his thumb and forefinger, watching the amber liquid intensely. For a moment, he seems far away, on his island, marooned somewhere in the Pacific perhaps.

"Here's your story, hot-shot." The man speaks, sipping the drink, tasting the liquor. "A boy in the cold rain, hungry and tired. Haunted by the ghost of his dead mother and honing revenge for a man he sees only in his dreams." He swallows, his lips pulled into a tight smile. "Well, I should be going anyway. Been sitting here for far too long." He gets up and leaves just like that.

And Sawyer is still sitting. Shell shocked. The glass frozen in his hand.

He stumbles outside and the ground is wet. The wind is cold and piercing. There's a sixteen-year-old boy huddling to the brick wall of the bar.

Sawyer walks toward him.  
_  
**A/N:** I think the thing to keep in mind is that it's all the same person._

PS. Yes, he does sleep with his mother.


End file.
